


You left the Strangest Taste in My Mouth

by inkrush81



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Original Character(s), unexplained magical happenings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkrush81/pseuds/inkrush81
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock realizes he loves Moriarty before the Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story takes place soon after Christmas Eve in Scandal but before New Year’s. The concept of this story is obviously not mine, and most recognizably taken from the film The Family Man. Title of work is a riff on a line from Coldplay's 'The Hardest Part.'

It was only the fourth time John came down to ask if Sherlock really needed to conduct a combustable experiment after he had just spent hours on his latest composition, that the detective decided it was time for a walk. Not because it was going on 3 am and John’s interruptions were doing nothing for his concentration, but because the results would have to sit for a few hours before any conclusive evidence could be reached. Besides, getting out in the city had helped him work around walls he’d run into in the past, compositionally speaking or while on a case. 

The snow that was lightly falling melted when it hit the pavement and Sherlock’s feet took him away from the London’s city center. 

Not that he was on a case. The city had been relatively quiet these last few days and if Sherlock had been prone to poetry or superstition he’d think the city were lamenting the death of Irene Adler as he was. John had received a few solicitations for the consulting detective’s help on new cases, but none of the intrigues had caught his eye. The papers had no mysteries worth investigating in person either. John had speculated that Sherlock might just be mourning. 

Sherlock always tried to shut out the occasional losses he sometimes encountered in his line of work. He’d never found the emotional repercussions that came with death to be useful. They rarely helped him find the culprit and often lessened the chance of their capture entirely. 

Their deaths were always a senseless loss, but the death of Irene Adler was something else. Sherlock couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if the people that were after Irene hadn’t caught up to her. If she had perhaps asked for help getting rid of them. If she had known of the consulting criminal. Moriarty no doubt could have helped the Woman outwit whatever enemies she had. Though he was actually surprised she had needed help at all. 

Up ahead there was some commotion which pulled Sherlock out of his thoughts. A group of young kids seemed to be harassing a pile of garbage. Certainly not the way the detective would want to spend his evening, but more inane than even he would expect for others. Sherlock walked closer, watching the source of the gang’s amusement and seeing the pile of trash shift. As he neared, Sherlock could see it wasn’t actually a pile of trash at all but a person who had fallen into a pile of trash. And who was actually getting kicked for it.

“Hey!” Sherlock shouted, speeding his walk up. “What do you think you’re doing?”

One of the hoodlums froze mid-kick and the others scrambled, some looking at each other, some looking for the interloper. When they saw the detective advancing, they all took off running. Sherlock watched them disappear into a park on the next block, before he stepped over to the trash bins and watched as an old woman pulled herself from the refuse. She dusted pieces of wilted lettuce, old receipts, and leaves off her blue over coat.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked. 

“I believe so,” the old woman said, looking up at Sherlock. “Thank you, young man.”

“It was no trouble,” Sherlock said examining the woman’s movements for possible injury. He’d been on the receiving end of one too many kicks to the gut and the often resulting cracked ribs in his time. 

“Sure it wasn’t,” the old woman said, picking up her bags. “I’ll buy you a pint in that pub over there for your trouble.” She pointed across the street to a tavern easily enough. 

“I tend not to drink.”

“Really?” the old woman squinted at Sherlock. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look like you could use one.”

Sherlock frowned. He hadn’t been the one pushed into a trash bin and he said as much. 

“Well, you could keep me company at least, if you’re such a teetotaler.” She started across the street expecting Sherlock to follow. 

The detective hadn’t been expecting company, but the longer he had been left to his own thoughts the more Sherlock realized he wasn’t exactly in the mood to reject it either.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

“...anyway that’s where you found me, arse in a bin and a bunch of ragamuffins giving me what-for,” the old woman, who had introduced herself as Agnes, finished.

Sherlock, after dutifully accepting a brandy on the old woman’s tab and for lack of anything better to talk about, asked her what she was doing in the trash, had listened to the old woman’s story. It wasn’t wholly dull, which he had been grateful for.

“So what’s got you down in the dumps - figuratively,” Agnes clarified with dark amusement. 

Sherlock’s lips thinned. The entire reason why he accepted the drink with Agnes was to avoid thinking of the Woman’s death for a time. 

“Let me guess, you caught your woman with some other man?” Agnes said, apparently sensing Sherlock’s discomfort.  


“I wish that were the case,” Sherlock scoffed.

“That worse than a cheating partner? Now you got to tell me!” Agnes said, eyes gleaming. Sherlock sighed and thought that really it couldn’t hurt.

“I was jus thinking that I could have ...done something. Done something different, at least.”

“Ah,” Agnes said, continuing to look at the detective shrewdly. “Those thoughts always do catch up with us.”

“Not much I can do about it now,” Sherlock stated, hoping the resignation in his tone would signal he’d prefer they drop the subject.

Agnes made a contrary noise and shrugged, “You never know.”

Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from saying that people don’t come back from the dead. That he saw the body, that he almost makes his living off of looking at dead bodies. So he should know. He would know. But he doesn’t want to get into the details with a stranger - or anyone for that matter. Agnes doesn’t push him though, merely asking if he wanted a final round when the bartender makes his last call. 

The detective declined. Sherlock doesn’t like to think of himself as a lightweight, but alcohol had never been his drug of choice. He was lacking in tolerance and already feeling the two drinks’ fizzy fuzzy effects on his brain. 

“No?” Agnes said, waving over the bartender to top off her flask. “Well, maybe you could do me one more favor?”

Sherlock blinked over at her, “What?”

“Would you walk me home?” Agnes asked. “I don’t live too far from here.”

“Sure,” Sherlock acquiesced, gathering up his coat. 

Agnes paid for their drinks and shrugged on her coat, collecting her bags. They stepped out into the winter chill and Agnes led them in the opposite direction of the way Sherlock had been aimlessly walking. The detective is silently thankful that he won’t have to walk back quite as far to get home. 

They walk in companionable silence till they’re actually nearing Baker St.

“You live around here?” Sherlock asked.

“Just a few more blocks,” Agnes reassured. 

“It’s just that I live around here too.”

“What a coincidence!” Agnes agreed. “How about this? If we pass your place first, you just go on into bed.”

“No, I agreed to walk you home,” Sherlock protested, despite how good the suggestion of his bed sounded. 

“I insist!” Agnes said, pulling out her flask. “Drink?”

Sherlock eyed it dubiously. 

“Well, I’m not going to force you,” She said, before taking a pull and holding it out again. This time he took it. They round a corner and Sherlock can see 221b. “In fact, you seem like you could use a break...”

Sherlock frowned wondering if he had missed part of Agnes’ sentence or if she just had too much.

“I’m going to do something for you,” She continued, still not making sense.

“But the drinks were quite enough. I sai-”

“No, something bigger- Better than the drinks.” Agnes clarified. “But there are rules.”

“I don’t under-”

“First, don’t tell anyone. And that’s the most important, so I’m going to say it again. Do not tell anyone,” Agnes said, her face getting impossibly close to Sherlock’s despite their sizable height difference. “The third rule is call this number if you need me,” she took her flask back and stuffed a business card into the shirt pocket of the detective’s button-up.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said stopping in front of his door.

“Oh, you will. That’s the point,” Agnes encouraged. “Sleep on it.” 

Sherlock wanted to question her further, but she was already having none of his protestations, pushing him up the stairs and through his unlocked door and sleep did sound good.

Sherlock stumbled up the stairs, frowning. Though he’d clearly been able to hold a rather decent conversation with Agnes, it seemed she couldn’t hold her drink without resorting to bizarre conspiracy. Sherlock didn’t know why he was surprised; she carried around a flask and he’d met her in a pile of trash. The detective resolved to put her out of his mind just as he remembered he had an experiment to check on.

Staggering into the kitchen, he examined his results with narrowed eyes. His findings hadn’t finished setting up, despite him taking the detour at the bar. Still it wouldn’t be long now. Sherlock settled in the kitchen chair, watching the dull petrie dishes, and blinking heavily. Perhaps he could just shut his eyes briefly, he thought laying his head on a pillow of his arms. 

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sherlock woke to the sounds of tea being fixed. He blearily opened his eyes, still surrounded by the trappings of last night’s experiment (and its complete failure by the looks of the dishes). Glancing at his wristwatch, he banked John must have gotten some sleep to be up this early. He stood and stretched his stiff limbs out. 

“When’d you finally get to sleep?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to look over his shoulder as John moved about behind him. 

“Sleep?” An unexpected, but unmistakable Irish lilt scoffed. Sherlock froze. “I told you that video conference was going to be with the other side of the world, and since it took practically all night, I got none!” Moriarty skipped into view, climbing up on the chair opposite Sherlock and holding a mug of tea between his hands. Sherlock stared. The criminal was wearing these striped pajama bottoms and one of his ridiculous Jim from IT shirts, eyes dancing with mischief but looking completely at home in Sherlock’s kitchen. “But the meeting was actually interesting. They wanted-”

“Where’s John?” the detective blurted. 

Moriarty’s eyebrows went up and he reevaluated Sherlock, as if looking for signs of sickness, before answering slowly, “With his wife? Where else would he be?” Then Moriarty reached over into his space yanking Sherlock’s arm to show him the time on the detective’s wrist. The criminal scoffed, “Yeah, definitely still in Hackney. Still in traffic, I’d wager. Why? Was he supposed to come over?” Moriarty sounded genuinely puzzled. “I thought you were going to work on this all day?” His eyes scanned the remains and his brow wrinkled further. “It looks like you’ll need the time...or are you scraping it?”

It was all Sherlock could do to shake his head. John was not married. No where near it. The mere idea was crazy. And why was Moriarty acting as if he lived here? What was going on?

Moriarty shifted across from him, sipping his tea and dismissing the earlier confusion, “Well, you know that I have to take care of this thing for Corteau today, but it should be done by tonight. So don’t think you need to ring up John to come with you to Stravinsky,” Moriarty pursed his lips in distaste, as if Sherlock had threatened to do it before. He took a sip of tea and eyed the detective pointedly apparently waiting for some sort of response.

Sherlock shrugged and Moriarty frowned. “Well, if you’re going to be like that, I have to go take care of this,” the criminal stood, only to lean over and give the detective a brief kiss on the lips before he padded out of the kitchen, leaving Sherlock stunned and staring after him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry this has taken a bit to get up, but I'm studying abroad right now. So there's lots of other expectations put on me that need to come before this. Just know that I am still thinking about this and updates will be coming - but that I can't promise any kind of regularity.

Five minutes later, Sherlock had no idea what Moriarty was doing in his flat. 

Actually, he wondered, was this even his flat? 

The detective had taken for granted that’s where he actually was given where he had woken up. Sherlock stood and turned his gaze, surveying his surroundings. This was indeed the kitchen of the 221b and he recognized a number of his things. There were, however, as he went through to the living room many that he did not and there was nothing of John’s. 

In a corner under one of the windows was a pile of exposed circuit boards and random bits of computer hardware. As neither Sherlock or the doctor were particularly adapt at technology, the detective didn’t think that the collection could be one of theirs. However, Sherlock had previously postulated that Moriarty was very adapt. It was a thought sparked by what the Woman had said about disguises always being self-portraits. And under what guise had Moriarty first met Sherlock, but as an IT tech. Those computers were Moriarty’s. 

Sherlock’s worktable was strewn with papers and a laptop more impressive than his own was half buried, connected to an imposing scanner at the far end of the table. The wallpaper was different. He noted with pleasure that it was a design he actually liked. No bullet holes or spray paint here. The rugs were different as well; richer and, not that the detective knew much of interior design, but he thought they complimented the new walls and drapes.

He turned around. The two sitting chairs positioned near the hearth were now a matching plush of slightly worn brown leather. He stepped around them and up to his bookshelves. The books were in a completely different order than how Sherlock normally arranged them. There were his own books on chemistry and anatomy and case histories, but there were also a number of books that he’d never heard of, let alone considered acquiring, including several well worn fiction paper-backs, along with a number of books who’s spines were in Gaelic. 

Perhaps the most unnerving difference was the pictures. Along the mantle in between the electric bills and his skull were framed photographs. There was one of him and Lestrade holding a golden prize cup, smiling wide ecstatic smiles. He and the inspector had never been so happy together, let alone entered any sort of contest with each other in his own life but here was photographic proof they had. The next was Moriarty, himself, and Mrs. Hudson all dressed up and standing in what looked like a concert hall lobby. Again everyone was smiling. Sherlock picked up the frame and looked closer, checking for signs of photoshop. The only thing the examination brought him was the way both his and Moriarty’s arms seemed to land on the smalls of each other’s backs rather than on Mrs. Hudson, who stood between them. 

Sherlock frowned. 

The next was with him, Moriarty, John, and a blond woman all raising their glasses in a toast to some unseen person behind the camera. They were all younger in the picture, by at least five years going off how old he looked. It was odd to see younger versions of John and Moriarty. 

That wasn’t the most interesting part of the photo though. Sherlock hazarded it had been a double date. Assuming he accepted that he lived here with the criminal and that he and Moriarty were the type of people to keep photos on their mantel, they certainly wouldn’t be the type to keep one featuring one of John’s exes. So the doctor must still be with her. Sherlock didn’t know the blonde woman but he had a feeling that he would like her. He felt a slight swelling of pride that John hadn’t managed to muck it up like he did with all the others. 

The final picture was a close up of the two of them, Sherlock and Moriarty. The detective stared at the frame. His double had been caught giving the criminal a kiss on the cheek. Both of their eyes were closed and they seemed to be outdoors somewhere windy, caught in a private moment. Moriarty’s expression was one of bashful pleasure, his arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, Sherlock’s own around the criminal pulling him close. 

Sherlock blinked at the picture a couple of times before looking away. Displays of affection weren’t the type of thing he usually found himself doing. Or wanting to do. Sherlock honestly didn’t know what to make of any of this. It didn’t make sense. This may have been 221b, but it was not Sherlock’s 221b. What was going on? How on earth did he get here?

Sherlock groaned and began to pace, as he wracked his brain for what transpired before he collapsed in the kitchen last night. This is why he didn’t drink, the detective thought as he lumbered around in the haze of his hangover. Drink? He remembered stumbling into the kitchen confused by the alcoholic ramblings of an old woman. Suddenly the night before comes rushing back to him. 

“The third rule is call this number if you need me!”

Sherlock frantically dug threw his pockets for the old lady’s number, praying that it was wherever she stuffed it but forgetting which pocket it should be exactly. This was definitely the last time he accepted a drink from a strange woman off the street. Finally he pulled out the small cream colored card from his breast pocket. 

Printed in neat company script was simply “Agnes” and on the following line “Glimpse Supervisor” and a mobile number. Sherlock flipped the card over. There was no surname for Agnes, organization, or address. Less than helpful if Sherlock had anything to say about it. He pulled out his phone and punched in Agnes’ number. 

If Sherlock had any expectation of the old woman picking up the phone, he was sorely disappointed, since it rung out to a standard non-personalized voicemail. Sherlock barely held back a groan and kept his voice carefully neutral as he said:

“This is the man who stopped a gang from beating you up last night. Something very strange has happened to me and I think it’s to do with you. Call me back as soon as you can.”

The detective hung up decidedly unsatisfied. He wanted answers. None of this made any sense. It just showed the desperation of his situation that he even thought a crazy woman could be at fault for all this. 

He glanced around the familiar yet different flat, in an almost beseeching manner as if there would be a clue as to what was happening. The sheer impossibility of waking up in another universe went against everything he believed in. A disbelief in the impossible and a desire to seek out the true logical cause of mysteries was what made his entire career possible. This seemed to go beyond that, but if there was one person in the world who he had faith in to pull a hoax as elaborate as this, it would be Moriarty. 

There was a knock on the flat door. Aware that aimlessly standing in the middle of his living room was atypical behavior for even him, Sherlock threw himself into his chair trying to look casual. The detective watched the door, expecting someone to come in but no one did and two seconds later another knock came. Clearly, whoever was on the other side of it, wasn’t just going to waltz in without expressed permission. 

“Enter!” Sherlock half-yelled suspiciously. The door opened and Mrs. Hudson came in smiling. 

“Good morning, dear,” she greeted. Though he was relieved to see her, it did not escape the detective’s attention that this Mrs. Hudson knocked before she entered 221b.

“You knocked,” the detective stated, confused. She never did that. Mrs. Hudson laughed.

“After the last time I walked in unannounced on you and Jim shagging, I think it’s better I make a habit of it,” she said, giving him a pointed look as she bustled into the kitchen. “I don’t think that’s something either of us wants to experience again, love.” 

Sherlock stared at her back. He and Jim what?

“Speaking of, where is your better half?” Mrs. Hudson asked from the kitchen. “I would have thought you two would be coordinating outfits for tonight.” 

“Coordinating outfits?” Sherlock asked, roused from his shock by horror. 

“For Stravinsky? You’ve been going on about it since you got the tickets two months ago. And you know Jim, he’d hate for you both to be wearing stripes or something too matchy-matchy.” 

Sherlock silently breathed a sigh of relief. “He’s working.”

“Ah, well he’s not here to stop me from taking a package of his biscuits then,” she said conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, Sherlock. I promise I’ll replace them before he notices they’re gone. I think I’ll be having company later today and I seemed to have found myself out of them,” She explained coming back into view, a box of jam tarts in hand. 

“Well, you know how he is when he’s working,” Sherlock attempted to improvise. He meant it as a placation, thinking Jim like himself would forgo all forms of nourishment while in the middle of a case, but Mrs. Hudson made a worried face. 

“Yes, but he has three others in there,” she said then sighed thinking: “The last time he went through three boxes of biscuits on one assignment was that big thing he was doing for that Swiss school...”

Sherlock shrugged and wondered how much of Jim’s operations Mrs. Hudson was privy to, “I doubt he’ll mind.”

Mrs. Hudson scoffed a laugh, “You may have a short memory about these kinds of things, dear. But I won’t be so quick to forget about the time he didn’t speak to me for a week over taking his last bag of fruit suckers,” she gave Sherlock a dark look and continued, “I’ll replace these tomorrow when I go to the store. Which by the way, did you need anything?”

“I think we’re fine,” Sherlock dithered. He didn’t know the state of the kitchen cupboards and honestly hoped he wouldn’t be here long enough to find out. He wasn’t sure he wanted to solve the mystery of what it was like to grocery shop with Moriarty.

“Well, you know where to find me if you think of anything,” Mrs. Hudson said in parting.

Sherlock fell back into his chair, shutting his eyes. Navigating this world was proving tough. His assumptions were off point, but something was keeping him from wanting to blow his cover and demand to know what was happening. 

He wouldn’t lie. The chance to get close to Moriarty was what was keeping him from exposing himself as an impostor. To see him in his natural habitat so to speak, without glamours and the game. Because Sherlock suspected that this - whatever this was - that took him from his world and put him in this one where he and Moriarty lived together, was not a part of his game with Jim. It was something else. He just couldn’t be sure yet.

The detective sighed, opening his eyes and seeing not-John’s chair. It was apparent from Moriarty’s words that Sherlock still was friends with John. Whether or not whatever was going on here had anything to do with Moriarty, the detective wanted to check if John was alright as the criminal’s track record with the doctor was not great, to say the least. Not that Sherlock thought Moriarty would kidnap John if he already had the detective’s attention or if he didn’t want to prove a point. 

Still, the detective had to know John was alright. But calling him wouldn’t be sufficient, after the morning he had Sherlock wanted to see his friend. 

He jumped up and practically bounded across the living room, grabbing his coat. He took the stairs two at a time and was out on the street before he knew exactly where he was headed. Moriarty had said John was likely to be stuck in traffic and it was a weekday, so he was at the hospital. He opted to walk there, simultaneously avoiding the morning commute and knowing that being cooped up in the back of a cab wasn’t exactly the best idea for him at the present moment. 

Sherlock didn’t often visit the doctor at the hospital, but he knew that John generally worked on the third floor of the east wing. He hoped that had remained the same, as he climbed the stairs and stepped onto the landing.

“Dr. Watson?” Sherlock asked the floor’s receptionist. 

“He’s right there,” he pointed down the hall at a stocky man in a white coat, hunched over reading something at the nurse’s station. Sherlock nodded his thanks and walked down the hall.

“John?”

The doctor turned around and Sherlock was relieved to find that it was indeed John. 

“Hey, Sherlock. Something the matter?” John answered, frowning at the detective. 

“..uh,” Sherlock scrambled for a reason why he would randomly show up at John’s place of work that wasn’t simply: ‘I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead or being held hostage somewhere.’ “Just wanted to see if you would be up to get some coffee.”

“Ah,” John exhaled, looking pleasantly surprised. “You know I’d love to, but we don’t all have flexible schedules like you and I am currently running late on my rounds because of all the damnable traffic I ran into this morning.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, it’s usually not that bad,” John said, mostly to himself and then as if the thought just occurred to him: “But I’m coming over tomorrow, if you’re still up for it?”

“Absolutely!” Sherlock agreed, pleased at the prospect of getting to spend some more time with his friend in the next twenty-four hours. 

“Great!” John said, before looking down at his watch and then back up at the detective. “Look, I’m going to have to check on the rest of these patients, but we’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.” 

“Yeah,” Sherlock said as John went in to the next room. 

The detective turned around and made his way out of Barts. He knew he had to be back in time for the concert later that night, but he just couldn’t bring himself to go back to Baker Street and risk Moriarty’s suspicion just yet. What he needed to do was find Agnes and ask her what was going on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shock! I’ve actually updated this! I know I’m terrible for stringing you all along just like the terrible show this is based off of, but as some of you may know I was a little busy with Real Life™.... but hopefully this chapter will satisfy for now!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon looking for traces of Agnes. When he’d set out from Bart’s that morning he’d had a lingering suspicion that there would be no trace of the old woman.

Unfortunately, the fruitless search that constituted the rest of the day only proved him right. The detective had exhausted nearly all possible avenues of finding a person who he knew so little about. And if not for Moriarty’s promise that he would indeed go with Sherlock to the orchestra, the detective would have just staked out the tavern from the night previous waiting to see if the old woman would make reappearance. But Sherlock could not think of anyone he would rather go to the symphony with...

There was one last person who the detective thought might have some information about the old woman and that was his landlady. It was a bit of an last ditch effort, even if Mrs. Hudson was well connected with the tea and crumpet scene of the Regent’s Park gossip circles.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock demanded, after letting himself in the front door and marching straight into her parlor. “Mrs. Hudson!” 

“Sherlock,” his landlady frowned at him from her armchair. “I don’t understand why you can’t knock sometimes. I told you I’d have company.” The detective’s eyes landed on the only other figure in the room, an old woman. _The_ old woman, in fact.

“You!” Sherlock accused, actually glaring at Agnes.

“Hiya, love!” the old woman from the night before greeted cheerily.

“What-?” The detective spluttered.

“Oh, do you two know each other?” Mrs. Hudson asked delightedly. 

“Yes, Sherlock helped me fend off some ruffians one night,” Agnes answered, failing to specify it had been _last_ night. 

“Oh, he is resourceful like that isn’t he?” Mrs. Hudson smiled proudly at the detective. “I’m sure you’d love to catch up then. Sherlock, I’ll fetch you a cuppa.”

The old woman smiled beatifically as Mrs. Hudson bustled into her kitchen for an extra tea. The detective wasted no time, stepping into the old woman’s space.

“What have you done?” Sherlock demanded in a hushed whisper, grabbing her by the lapel and pulling her up out of her chair.

“Calm down, it’s only a glimpse,” the old woman said, prizing Sherlock’s hands off her collar. She frowned very pointedly as she straightened her clothes. 

“A what?”

“A glimpse. It’s nothing to worry about. Just a look into another life you could be living. Everything will go back to as it was before.”

“How? When?”

“You were brought here for a reason. You’ll go back after you learn what you were supposed to.”

“How long will that take?”

“You’re a quick learner,” Agnes eyed him shrewdly. “Probably not as long as the others-”

“You’ve done this to _other_ people?” Sherlock interrupted, horrified. 

“-But one never knows when it comes to these kinds of things,” she finished, pensively. “And as for the others, they’ve all been quite grateful for the experience, once it’s done. They say their glimpses left them with a ‘sense of enlightenment.’”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And what about my other life? My real one? What’s happening there now?”

“Nothing,” the old woman shrugged. “Think of it as on pause. It will be exactly the way you left it when you return.”

“When I return? How about _if_ I return? Moriarty is going to find out I’m someone else the next two minutes he spends with me! And then what do you think’s gonna happen?”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to convince him otherwise....besides you’ll have some help,” Agnes smiled enigmatically. 

“I don’t need help to- what? Convince Moriarty I’m the one who’s been living with him? No, I need to go home!”

“So soon?” Agnes cooed, voice edged. “You said you wished you had done something different. That you had _done_ something. Well, here’s your chance to see what would have happened if you had.”

“I meant in relation to the woman’s death! How does _this_ have anything to do with that?” Sherlock hissed.

“Patience,” Agnes intoned as Mrs. Hudson came back in with Sherlock’s tea.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

He sat there for another half hour listening to the two women converse, before it became clear to Sherlock that he would not get another moment alone with Agnes and he might as well just excuse himself. Sherlock climbed the 221b stairs dissatisfied and confused for the second time in twenty-four hours. Everything was as he had left it in his rush to get to the hospital that morning. The computer bits were still in the corner and John’s chair was still no where to be seen. Moriarty was also conspicuously absent.

Sherlock glanced at the clock. It was barely half six but he was exhausted. He headed straight to his bedroom, hoping that it was indeed still his bedroom. He heard the sounds of a running shower as he passed the bathroom, but he ignored it in favor of the bed which he could see through the open door at the end of the hall. 

It was at the sight of his bed that he felt the fatigue he had been ignoring suddenly hit him all at once and he just flopped down on the bed. However, instead of the softness of the duvet he had been expecting, Sherlock’s back was met with the hard corner of something quite solid. He bit back a pained yelp and rooted around under the blankets for the item which obviously should not have been there, only to pull out an advanced mathematics textbook. 

Sherlock frowned wondering exactly where this had come from and what it was doing in bed. It had to be Moriarty’s, it simply had to be. Sherlock had no interest in university or maths and unless this was a remnant of a case he’d been working, Sherlock doubted this version of him could be so completely different from himself. But what Moriarty would be doing with a textbook was also completely beyond him.

The detective threw the book on the floor and fell back on the bed again, washing his hands of the anomaly; chalking it up as another bizarre turn in this ‘glimpse.’ He shut his eyes, immediately falling into a quasi-sleep-state. 

Sherlock had maybe four minutes of peace before the sounds of wet footsteps marched passed him. The detective cracked an eye open to catch sight of the criminal’s back, a few drops of water rolling down from his hair and to the low slung towel around his waist, before Moriarty disappeared into the walk-in closet. 

“What are you doing?” Moriarty’s impatient voice asked.

“Lying down...”

“Obviously, but why?” Moriarty asked again. Sherlock stifled a sardonic comment along the lines “why do people normally lay on beds’ when Moriarty kept talking. “We have to go in like twenty minutes and you’re not even dressed!” 

The detective then remembered the promised symphony and looked down at his clothes. He didn’t think they were that bad, but Moriarty clearly had other thoughts as a pair of slacks collided with Sherlock’s head, followed by a dress shirt, and a blazer. He pushed the outfit off him and on to the bed, only for his leg to be slapped with a tie. 

He looked up, but Moriarty was grinning. 

“If only we had more time...” The criminal said taking the few steps so he was standing next to Sherlock. Moriarty looped the tie around the detective’s neck and leaned down to pressed their lips together. This time it wasn’t chaste. Moriarty’s tongue licked along his lower lip. Sherlock gasped, inadvertently allowing the criminal entrance to his mouth. Moriarty hummed with pleasure. As the criminal swiped his tongue along the detective’s, Sherlock found himself responding.

It must have been minutes they were like that, but Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to tell as he kissed the criminal for the first time. 

Sherlock’s fingers found themselves tangled in the hair at the nape of Moriarty’s neck when Moriarty pulled away with clear reluctance. His lips were redder than Sherlock had ever seen them and his pupils blown. But what was more disturbing was the fact that Sherlock was certain he was a reflection of the criminal. A picture of lust, created entirely by and for the man in front of him. Sherlock didn’t do lust. He didn’t do want, sexually. But that’s what he was feeling now towards Jim Moriarty. From one little kiss. 

This was new territory for him. But clearly not for his other self as Moriarty just quirked a smile at him like they did this all the time, completely ignorant to Sherlock silent meltdown, before sauntering to the door. “Better hurry,” he threw over his shoulder. “The cab will be here in ten!”

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

There was no more funny business en route to the symphony. Sherlock was quickly able to put the experience far from his mind with discussions about the pieces of music that would be played. Moriarty was talking about this one time he’d heard the Brno Philharmonic pay before. His conclusion was that they weren’t terrible.

Conversing with Moriarty on the subject of music was an absolute treat. If he gained nothing else from this ‘glimpse,’ he thought as they talked about different performances of Stravinsky, the knowledge that he was right in his hopeful assumption that Moriarty knew his music. 

In fact, he had gotten so absorbed in the conversation, that Sherlock hadn’t even thought twice about telling Moriarty about one time he’d heard the Four Norwegian Moods performed when the orchestra was missing their second bassoonist and their third trumpet was off-key. Moriarty’s expression morphed into one of distressed sympathy. 

“The experience had been painful,” Sherlock admitted. The criminal laughed then, a completely delighted sound. “I must have complained for a week.”

“I don’t remember that at all,” Moriarty frowned. “Where did you say you heard this travesty?”

Sherlock’s heart felt like it must have just skipped a beat. For nearly that entire conversation he’d forgotten he was in a surreal parallel universe where he was not him and now Sherlock was going to pay the consequences for being lured into a facade of easy familiarity. How could he answer that question? The detective didn’t know where his other self’s history with Moriarty began. He didn’t know how much of his life the criminal knew. But they had to have been together for quite a while, if their pictures on the mantle were anything to go by. 

The criminal was still looking at him expecting an answer. Sherlock didn’t pick a place at random when he said “Berlin,” but it might as well have been. He tried not to hold his breath and kept his fingers mentally crossed that he didn’t just fuck everything up. 

Moriarty considered for several moments. Then scoffed, as if he remembered a time when Sherlock had been ill-tempered in Berlin without him. The criminal smirked as he shifted across the foot of the seat that separated them and whispered in Sherlock’s ear, “If I had been there, darling, we would have mocked them mercilessly.” He kissed Sherlock’s cheek then. 

“Hopefully, that won’t be necessary tonight,” Sherlock managed, as they pulled up to the curb in front of the concert hall. As he paid the cabbie, Sherlock had a thought: “Do you have the tickets?” the detective asked as he climbed out of the back of the cab. 

“Will call, of course,” Moriarty said, heading off up the steps to the main entrance. “Like always.”

“Right.” 

“You can’t really expect me to order anything different after the last time we had them delivered to the flat,” the criminal said, sending an extremely dubious look back at the detective before giving his real name to the representative at the box office. “I mean, really Sherlock that was a ridiculous waste...”

The detective sighed internally, wishing he could just ask the criminal what had happened. But he knew he couldn’t and there was no way he’d be able to get it out of Moriarty without him getting suspicious. And as that help Agnes promised hadn’t materialized, Sherlock didn’t want to press his luck just yet. 

As Sherlock and Jim entered the hall and made their way to their assigned seats, Moriarty talked about the acoustics. The detective was barely listening as they picked their way through to the middle of the row. He was certain the criminal would have acquired the best. 

“-and that these seats are the best in the house,” Moriarty said as they finished settling. “...well that was what Irene said anyway.”

“Adler?” Sherlock blurted out the Woman’s last name more out of shock connection than anything else. He realized his mistake a second later when he glanced at Moriarty’s silent, scowling form.

Sherlock knew how he would act in this situation: frustration and annoyance. At any slowness or stupid questions he’d become short and suspicious. Moriarty had a track record of doing the same, only ten-fold. Except here the criminal did not fix him with a look of consternation, but concern.

“Of course,” Jim said slowly, watching at the detective closely.

Sherlock attempted blithe ignorance as Moriarty’s eyes continued to watch him, but that was easier said than done. Jim opened his mouth to question Sherlock just as the house lights dimmed. The detective stared fixedly at the stage, while out of the corner of his eye he saw Jim close his mouth and continue to frown.

Sherlock was thankful for the intervention, though he was sure Moriarty would bring it up after.

He wasn’t sure how he’d get out of the criminal’s keen questioning later, but he wasn’t sure he cared with the casual mention of the woman. Sherlock didn’t know why he’d assumed she’d be dead here as well, perhaps it was something to do her meddling nature. But it sent a thrill down his spine at the thought of talking with her again. He had to force himself to focus on the performance.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Mercifully, the criminal was too distracted by the high quality of the symphony to remember to question Sherlock further over the woman thing. They were laughing as the two of them piled in the back of a cab and Moriarty gave the Baker Street address.

“Are we really just going back?”

“I got an offer,” Jim said sighing. “From one of the percussionists for drinks with us and a few of the other players, but I told him we’d catch up next time. I don’t know what you were doing today, but you look beat. Figured you could use the rest.”

“And you?” Sherlock studied the criminal as he watched the passing London street lights. “Didn’t you want to go out?”

“I can go out with them anytime. Besides,” he said turning back, small smile playing on his lips. “it’s no fun if you’re not there.”

The criminal sat back then, leaning against Sherlock, prodding him a bit till the detective was in a more comfortable position for Moriarty to use as a pillow for the rest of the ride back to Regent’s.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It was strange that Moriarty had a key to the 221b. Again, it made Sherlock wonder how long these two had been together in this parallel world. The thing was the detective didn’t really feel like he could make a guess. Moriarty and him just clicked. At the pool they had talked like they’d known each other for years, when in actuality it had been days. Sherlock could hazard it was plus ten years for these two, but it could just as easily be less given how they got on. As they both continued to Sherlock’s room, he came to the realization that it was very likely that this detective shared the same bed as Moriarty. The mere idea of it halted him at the doorway of the room. The criminal continued on with what he’d been talking about since they got back to Baker Street, but Sherlock honestly couldn’t hear what he was saying over the alarm sirens that were going off in his head.

The room, as he’d known from earlier that evening, only had one bed. 

His mind just honestly had not gotten to that part of what this Sherlock’s life could be like. He would never have thought it could be so very different from his own. Moriarty disappeared into the closet, only to reappear in only his pants, which Sherlock could not overlook were entirely patterned with stars and galaxies. The detective had to admit that he was just not prepared for this. Moriarty caught him staring and raised his eyebrows.

“See something you like?” Moriarty asked licentious, before striking a pose of what could only be likened to a pinup girl. 

Sherlock couldn’t say anything.

The criminal dissolved into giggles, putting his wallet on the dresser and plugging in his phone, “Oh go brush your teeth. You are exhausted.”

The detective really needed to get away from this Moriarty who was acting outside of their game. Sherlock shook his head. He had too many questions and he didn’t know how he could get answers except if he maybe had some time away from the criminal. Moriarty turned to find the detective still frozen in the doorway. 

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

“‘Course,” Sherlock said gruffly. “I just remembered I need to finish that experiment.” He turned, trying to make his way to the living room before Moriarty could question his objective. 

“Ah ah ah, no you don’t,” Moriarty must have slid across the hardwood floor in his socks, because out of no where Moriarty’s fingers were wrapped around Sherlock’s upper arm. “You’re sleeping in an actual bed tonight.”

“But-”

“Your experiment can _wait_ ,” Moriarty said, dragging the detective to the bathroom. The criminal picked up his toothbrush, shoving Sherlock’s in his hand, before he squeezed out some toothpaste on his own and handed the tube to Sherlock. 

The detective could not believe that he was standing next to the world’s most dangerous criminal and they were just brushing their teeth. So ordinary. Just like every other ordinary couple did before going to bed, because they were a couple.

“You are dead on your feet. How late did you work on that optimization last night?” Moriarty asked after spitting. 

“Too late, apparently,” the detective said, after he followed suit. Moriarty just shook his head and poked Sherlock till he began to move back towards the bedroom. Once inside, Moriarty slid his fingers in behind the collar of Sherlock’s blazer and pulled it off his back. He disappeared into the closet briefly, before pulling back the covers and climbing into the right side of the bed.

Sherlock flicked off the lights and methodically undressed the rest of the way, leaving it all in a pile to worry about some other time. He then climbed awkwardly into bed ( _their bed_ ) and settled carefully on his own side. There were a few blessed seconds when the detective thought they might keep to their respective sides, but those hope were soon dashed when the criminal threw an arm across the detective. He was warm and before long Moriarty was breathing rhythmically but it took Sherlock too long to fall asleep in this strange world. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to wake up tomorrow and find that this ‘glimpse’ was all a dream or that he was still stuck in it.


End file.
